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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer
Capítulo 33, Página 1
Within
a
few
minutes
the
news
had
spread,
and
a
dozen
skiff-loads
of
men
were
on
their
way
to
McDougal’s
cave,
and
the
ferryboat,
well
filled
with
passengers,
soon
followed.
Tom
Sawyer
was
in
the
skiff
that
bore
Judge
Thatcher.
When
the
cave
door
was
unlocked,
a
sorrowful
sight
presented
itself
in
the
dim
twilight
of
the
place.
Injun
Joe
lay
stretched
upon
the
ground,
dead,
with
his
face
close
to
the
crack
of
the
door,
as
if
his
longing
eyes
had
been
fixed,
to
the
latest
moment,
upon
the
light
and
the
cheer
of
the
free
world
outside.
Tom
was
touched,
for
he
knew
by
his
own
experience
how
this
wretch
had
suffered.
His
pity
was
moved,
but
nevertheless
he
felt
an
abounding
sense
of
relief
and
security,
now,
which
revealed
to
him
in
a
degree
which
he
had
not
fully
appreciated
before
how
vast
a
weight
of
dread
had
been
lying
upon
him
since
the
day
he
lifted
his
voice
against
this
bloody-minded
outcast.
Injun
Joe’s
bowie-knife
lay
close
by,
its
blade
broken
in
two.
The
great
foundation-beam
of
the
door
had
been
chipped
and
hacked
through,
with
tedious
labor;
useless
labor,
too,
it
was,
for
the
native
rock
formed
a
sill
outside
it,
and
upon
that
stubborn
material
the
knife
had
wrought
no
effect;
the
only
damage
done
was
to
the
knife
itself.
But
if
there
had
been
no
stony
obstruction
there
the
labor
would
have
been
useless
still,
for
if
the
beam
had
been
wholly
cut
away
Injun
Joe
could
not
have
squeezed
his
body
under
the
door,
and
he
knew
it.
So
he
had
only
hacked
that
place
in
order
to
be
doing
something—in
order
to
pass
the
weary
time—in
order
to
employ
his
tortured
faculties.
Ordinarily
one
could
find
half
a
dozen
bits
of
candle
stuck
around
in
the
crevices
of
this
vestibule,
left
there
by
tourists;
but
there
were
none
now.
The
prisoner
had
searched
them
out
and
eaten
them.
He
had
also
contrived
to
catch
a
few
bats,
and
these,
also,
he
had
eaten,
leaving
only
their
claws.
The
poor
unfortunate
had
starved
to
death.
In
one
place,
near
at
hand,
a
stalagmite
had
been
slowly
growing
up
from
the
ground
for
ages,
builded
by
the
water-drip
from
a
stalactite
overhead.
The
captive
had
broken
off
the
stalagmite,
and
upon
the
stump
had
placed
a
stone,
wherein
he
had
scooped
a
shallow
hollow
to
catch
the
precious
drop
that
fell
once
in
every
three
minutes
with
the
dreary
regularity
of
a
clock-tick—a
dessertspoonful
once
in
four
and
twenty
hours.
That
drop
was
falling
when
the
Pyramids
were
new;
when
Troy
fell;
when
the
foundations
of
Rome
were
laid;
when
Christ
was
crucified;
when
the
Conqueror
created
the
British
empire;
when
Columbus
sailed;
when
the
massacre
at
Lexington
was
“news.”
It
is
falling
now;
it
will
still
be
falling
when
all
these
things
shall
have
sunk
down
the
afternoon
of
history,
and
the
twilight
of
tradition,
and
been
swallowed
up
in
the
thick
night
of
oblivion.
Has
everything
a
purpose
and
a
mission?
Did
this
drop
fall
patiently
during
five
thousand
years
to
be
ready
for
this
flitting
human
insect’s
need?
and
has
it
another
important
object
to
accomplish
ten
thousand
years
to
come?
No
matter.
It
is
many
and
many
a
year
since
the
hapless
half-breed
scooped
out
the
stone
to
catch
the
priceless
drops,
but
to
this
day
the
tourist
stares
longest
at
that
pathetic
stone
and
that
slow-dropping
water
when
he
comes
to
see
the
wonders
of
McDougal’s
cave.
Injun
Joe’s
cup
stands
first
in
the
list
of
the
cavern’s
marvels;
even
“Aladdin’s
Palace”
cannot
rival
it.
Injun
Joe
was
buried
near
the
mouth
of
the
cave;
and
people
flocked
there
in
boats
and
wagons
from
the
towns
and
from
all
the
farms
and
hamlets
for
seven
miles
around;
they
brought
their
children,
and
all
sorts
of
provisions,
and
confessed
that
they
had
had
almost
as
satisfactory
a
time
at
the
funeral
as
they
could
have
had
at
the
hanging.
This
funeral
stopped
the
further
growth
of
one
thing—the
petition
to
the
governor
for
Injun
Joe’s
pardon.
The
petition
had
been
largely
signed;
many
tearful
and
eloquent
meetings
had
been
held,
and
a
committee
of
sappy
women
been
appointed
to
go
in
deep
mourning
and
wail
around
the
governor,
and
implore
him
to
be
a
merciful
ass
and
trample
his
duty
under
foot.
Injun
Joe
was
believed
to
have
killed
five
citizens
of
the
village,
but
what
of
that?
If
he
had
been
Satan
himself
there
would
have
been
plenty
of
weaklings
ready
to
scribble
their
names
to
a
pardon-petition,
and
drip
a
tear
on
it
from
their
permanently
impaired
and
leaky
water-works.
The
morning
after
the
funeral
Tom
took
Huck
to
a
private
place
to
have
an
important
talk.
Huck
had
learned
all
about
Tom’s
adventure
from
the
Welshman
and
the
Widow
Douglas,
by
this
time,
but
Tom
said
he
reckoned
there
was
one
thing
they
had
not
told
him;
that
thing
was
what
he
wanted
to
talk
about
now.
Huck’s
face
saddened.
He
said:
“I
know
what
it
is.
You
got
into
No.
2
and
never
found
anything
but
whiskey.
Nobody
told
me
it
was
you;
but
I
just
knowed
it
must
’a’
ben
you,
soon
as
I
heard
’bout
that
whiskey
business;
and
I
knowed
you
hadn’t
got
the
money
becuz
you’d
’a’
got
at
me
some
way
or
other
and
told
me
even
if
you
was
mum
to
everybody
else.
Tom,
something’s
always
told
me
we’d
never
get
holt
of
that
swag.”
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Las aventuras de Tom Sawyer — C1 Inglés | Cuentana